


unspoken words

by blackfirewolf



Series: sunshine, sunshine [2]
Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst, Arguments, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Child Neglect, Complicated Relationships, Drowning, Everyone is going through it, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Grief/Mourning, Major Character Injury, Minor Violence, Parent-Child Relationship, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of child death, slight victim-blaming, tw warnings for:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackfirewolf/pseuds/blackfirewolf
Summary: “Because the reason you’re still angry is that she hasn’t stopped grieving.”“Well, she shouldn’t!” he burst out. “Like I said, it’s been years, now! It’s not my problem if she refuses to move on, but it is when she won’t let the rest of us forget it!”-----------Everyone grieves in different ways.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: sunshine, sunshine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925707
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	unspoken words

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: you need to read the first part of this series for this story to make sense. 
> 
> anyway, this was originally started last summer, following the first part, but i only finished it this year during quarantine. i think it helps fill in the gaps for how Sunflank grieved, since a large part of that is intentionally repressed from her pov. it takes an outsider's eyes to really grasp how she never fully recovered from her mate's death.
> 
> sorry to all my friends that cried a second time while reading this <3

For most of his life, Dustwhisker had been blessed with peace. He was born to a time in which the clans were more allies than enemies, where old traditions were slowly being altered to allow for more acceptance, where he had been able to train as an apprentice and grow into a fine warrior without bloodshed and fear as motivators. He considered himself lucky.

Staring at his sister’s body, a part of him wished he’d had a harder life—that maybe, if he’d suffered a bit more, he wouldn’t hurt so much in that moment.

Gentlemoon crouched next to her, silently tucking herbs and flowers around her immobile form, weaving stems and roots through her bloodied fur and covering the open wounds. The sweet scent of wild roses and pine needles concealed the scent of death, but her eyes remained open, the lovely grey now clouded and void of everything that had made her so kind and beautiful. They were the last things to be covered. By dandelions, which he supposed was fitting. They almost had as much life as her eyes once did.

Next to him, his sister’s mate crouched. She hadn’t spoken a word, and the one eye still remaining in her mangled face tracked Gentlemoon’s movements with a cold precision better suited for prey. Something about it made Dustwhisker angry; like somehow, maybe she didn’t care.

“Are you ok?” was whispered into his ear, and he shut his eyes to hold back the barrage of emotions, of words and thoughts and _everything_ , that longed to pour out of his mouth. When he opened them again, he was met with the face of his own mate, and he drank it in like perhaps, soon enough, he’d be staring down at her corpse, too.

He hadn’t responded to the question, and he wouldn’t, but her eyes were soft as she leaned into his side. They had all been apprentices together, so surely she, too, was grieving. The whole clan was grieving.

It was different, though. He didn’t want to be selfish, but he knew that his grief was deeper and darker than that of his clanmates. Because it was his sister. Lionwing, his littermate and best friend, who’d squirmed alongside him at their mother’s belly in the nursery, who’d played and fought with him, who’d cheered him on through his warrior ceremony, who’d purred and laughed and cried when she had meet her nephew.

And now she was dead. Just like her firstborn kits that would remain forever unnamed. All that was left was her grieving family and a lone, wounded child who’d never grow up tussling with her siblings, who would not grow up peacefully as he had, but who even now, without a name to call their own, had witnessed and endured through bloodshed and fear and _death_.

“Silver,” he choked out, and in an instant, his mate had buried her nose into his shoulder so he could cling to her as he desperately fought back sobs. At his feet, his only son trembled and made no sound. At the very start, Hazelpaw had turned and buried his head into Dustwhisker’s belly, and he hadn’t protested the action. He wouldn’t force his son to watch his aunt’s burial. He might have been an apprentice, but he was also Dustwhisker’s kit, and he still seemed too young for such things—even if he had insisted on being there anyway, stubbornly arguing that even if he hadn’t been there for the kits’ burials, he at least wanted to be there to say good-bye to his aunt _._

“It’s time,” murmured Gentlemoon, and Dustwhisker knew that—he’d been awake all night with his nose pressed to Lionwing’s shoulder, had stood vigil over her with Silversplash and their apprentice-mates and, of course, Sunflank. He had pictured the way the stars would move above them, imagined his sister’s soul using the cover of night and the lively spring breeze to reach Starclan even as her physical body—covered in flowers and herbs and surrounded by those closest to her—curled into the earth that was warm and freshly turned, patiently waiting for the burial to conclude. He knew, but he didn’t think he’d ever be ready.

As the last glimpse of Lionwing was concealed, Sunflank twitched and stood. Dustwhisker cast her a look full of contempt, lip curling with strong, angry words, words like: _The burial isn’t over yet, they still haven’t placed the stone over her grave,_ and _I know you’ve always been prickly and stubborn but this is important and can’t you respect the rules just this one time,_ and _WHY THE HELL DON’T YOU SEEM TO CARE WHEN SHE’S DEAD SHE’S DEAD SHE’S DEAD._

He didn’t say anything. He watched her start to walk away, the slow limp from her wounds that had barely even begun to heal—the wounds she’d suffered attempting to protect the nursey, and at that thought, his anger died like a snuffed flame. Because of Sunflank, he still had his son at his feet. Because of Sunflank, their clan had been able to defend itself.

Because of Sunflank, Lionwing had been determined to fight in that final battle.

(Part of him knew that was unfair, that Lionwing would have fought anyway, even without the death of her kits and the mutilation of her mate as motivation. It was who she was, to fight for the defenseless, against the injustice and brutality that the Raiders had wrought. She would have gone to that final battle either way, because it was the right thing to do.)

“M-Mom?” stuttered Sunflank’s kit, Lionwing’s daughter, his sole remaining niece. She had been curled in the space between Sunflank’s legs during the burial, had cried and stared without flinching at the face of her Mama. Now she crouched on her haunches, half-standing, confusion and grief standing out on her young face like a beam of light as she watched her Mom walk away. Sunflank didn’t respond; she made no move to suggest that she had even heard her kit call out for her.

“Sunflank,” Gentlemoon said, “you should come back to the healer’s den—you’re in no shape to be walking around.” Beneath her words were a thousand different sentiments, words like: _I’m the healer and you’re still hurt so you need to listen when I say you should rest,_ and _I know you’ve always been prickly and stubborn but you should listen just this one time,_ and _I’m sorry for your loss, but your kit is here and alive and NEEDS you now more than ever._

Sunflank’s tail twitched, but she didn’t turn. “I’m leaving,” she said, and her voice was raspy and grating, and Dustwhisker might have thought it was because she was crying, but more likely, it was just because she was still injured.

Sunflank didn’t cry, after all.

Without another word, Sunflank slipped away, retreating from the camp’s edge and disappearing into the forest. “Mom!” her kit gasped, and she tried to follow, tripping over her little kit paws and still crying, exhaustion seeping out of her small body, and it was the most heartbreaking thing Dustwhisker had ever seen. It was why he leapt to his feet, even though his son was still crying against his chest and his mate was leaning on his side and his sister’s burial wasn’t yet complete—because this was his niece and she was just a kit, a kit who’d already lost one mother and didn’t need to watch another walk out of her life.

He swept the kit up, licking her over the forehead as he tried to calm her, and the rage that burst in his chest was like a star exploding. “I’m going to—how dare she walk away! I’ll—” he snarled, lip curling as he tried to soothe the kit between his legs while also suppressing the urge to run after Sunflank at the same time. If he could, he would tackle her to the ground and would tear into what unmarked flesh remained on her face, scream and yell and demand that she take responsibility for herself and her dead mate and the kit they shared, because she wasn’t the only one who had lost someone, it wasn’t all about her, _couldn’t she see they were ALL in pain?_

“Dustwhisker,” Silversplash said sharply, “calm down.”

He realized he was shaking as he looked up. His mate had the most beautiful eyes—a crystal blue that blazed like a raging fire. It was what had drawn him to her in the first place, back when she had been no more than a kittypet determined to join the clans. She had fought her whole life for the place she had among Cinderclan—and it was her blazing spirit that now had him bowing his head and conceding defeat.

“She just needs time,” Gentlemoon muttered softly, staring in the direction Sunflank had disappeared. The healer’s ears drooped, her eyes tired and her face worn with worry-lines from the amount of burials she had done in the past moon. “She’ll come back.”

Dustwhisker couldn’t stop the bitter, “She better!” from spilling from his mouth, and he ignored Silversplash’s hard look, continuing to lick behind the kit’s ears. Something hard and painful had settled in the base of his belly, something tightly-wound and ready to lash out in rage and grief.

Dustwhisker closed his eyes and prayed that Lionwing was in Starclan—that even though barely any time had passed, she was there and listening and knew how much she was missed already. He kept them closed as he groomed his niece, her sobs dying down to sniffles, and Hazelpaw once again squirmed between his legs to press himself to her side. He listened as Silversplash helped Gentlemoon move the smooth, rounded river-stone over his sister’s grave, and he only opened his eyes again when things were quiet and still.

Later, he would watch as Sunflank limped back into the camp, the moonlight casting shadows over her back, and he wouldn’t wonder where she’d been the whole evening while Lionwing’s burial concluded. Not when he and Silversplash had been the ones to take her kit back to camp and put her to bed. Not when she’d huddled against her older cousin and had refused to sleep as she asked over and over again for a mother who had walked away without explanation, right when she was needed the most. Not when neither he, nor Silversplash, had been able to reassure her, and she’d eventually cried herself to sleep. He didn’t confront Sunflank or demand to know where she’d been or if she was ok.

Dustwhisker just felt angry.

…

“What do you think he’ll be named?” Silversplash asked. They were curled together in their nest, their son settled between them, and things for just that moment felt alright. Although it had only been about a moon, time had healed some of the aching of his heart. It also helped, he supposed, that the threat of the Raiders was now gone; all that was left was for the clans to recover.

Dustwhisker let out a low hum. The den was warm and sleepy—how it was supposed to be, and he felt love bloom in his heart as he watched his son’s chest rise and fall in a gentle, even rhythm.

“Would…” He paused, unsure of how to continue.

“Go on,” Silversplash urged.

“Would it be selfish,” he said, “if I asked to name him after my sister?”

Silversplash let out a purr and pressed her forehead to his. “Dust, if that’s what you want, then that is what we’ll do.”

“Do you think it’ll be a burden?” he questioned. “That he’ll somehow feel like he has to live up to Lionwing?”

“Not if you make sure to tell him it’s not a burden—that if he wants to be named for his aunt, who was brave and kind and who died honorably, that there is nothing for him to live up to as long as he just tries his best. There’s no burden there, right?”

“You’re smarter than me,” Dustwhisker purred. “I love him. And I know… I know how much Lionwing loved him, too.”

Silversplash sighed, settling her head on the crook of his shoulder. “And Sunflank?” she asked quietly.

Dustwhisker’s ears flicked and he looked up, although he knew Sunflank wasn’t there. She was still a resident of the healer’s den, and despite the advice of Gentlemoon, she insisted on having her kit there, too. “What about her?”

“Do you think it’ll be good for her?”

Irritation prickled along Dustwhisker’s spine. “She was my sister, Silver. She doesn’t get a say in how I honor her or what I name our son!”

Silversplash swatted his ear, not bothering to open her eyes or shift from how she was leaning on her mate. “Don’t be an idiot,” she scolded, “Sunflank loved Lionwing. I was only suggesting that it’ll probably be difficult enough for her to watch her kit grow up without Lionwing at her side—let alone one that’s named after her.”

“Maybe,” Dustwhisker said, “but it’s our decision and our son and she can’t argue with that!”

Silversplash sighed, a sound that communicated so many things at once, words like: _You’re such an idiot,_ and _There is a bigger picture here that you’re not seeing,_ and _Despite all that, I still love you._

Dustwhisker pressed his forehead to hers and let the night settle into his bones, trying to dismiss her words from his mind.

…

“It is long overdue,” the leader began, in a somber tone, “to grant a new warrior their name. Hazelpaw, come forward.” They paused, eyes gleaming in the moonlight as the apprentice before them trembled in anticipation. “You have waited past the allotted time you would have been granted your warrior status, choosing instead to support your family through this difficult time. Your honor and dedication is an inspiration to our clan, and therefore, it is with great pride that I, leader of Cinderclan, now call upon my warrior ancestors to look down on this apprentice. They have trained hard to understand the ways of your noble code, and I commend them to you as a warrior in their turn. Hazelpaw, do you promise to uphold the warrior code and to protect and defend your clan, even at the cost of your life?”

Hazelpaw lifted his head high. “I do.”

Their leader nodded down at him. “Then by the powers of StarClan,” the leader called, “I give you your warrior name. Hazelpaw, from this moment on—and by your family’s request—you will be known as Hazelwing. StarClan honors your strength and devotion, and we welcome you as a full warrior of Cinderclan.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Duswhisker saw how Sunflank jerked up from her slumped position and stared. Before that, she’d been nothing but a statue, her eyes cast downwards to the clearing’s floor, and Dustwhisker had felt unease creep over him at how still she had been sitting. He watched carefully, but she made no other move as the crowd around them burst into calls of “Hazelwing! Hazelwing! Hazelwing!” 

As Hazelwing settled at the corners of the clearing, the leader once again cleared their throat. “Now,” they called, “it is time for the traditional naming of kits. They are well past the traditional moon that is required before being given names—and they have proven their courage and strength in ways that pain my heart.” They leapt from their perch to where the surviving kits of the River Raids looked up with wide eyes, touching each kit on the forehead before turning to where their parents sat. “Give them worthy names.”

Dustwhisker knew he should be paying attention. That he should be watching the relieved joy dance across the faces of parents as they named their children, celebrating that they were all alive to do so. But the only one he could focus on was the fluffy orange kit sitting at the end, squirming eagerly in her seat.

And finally, the noise from the other naming ceremonies died down, and all eyes turned to Sunflank. For a long moment, she didn’t move, but when she did, she moved slowly, like each step pained her (and perhaps it did).

She touched her nose to her kit’s forehead, not bothering to look out at the clan as she stared into the kit’s wide eyes. “From now on…” she said, quietly, in a voice just as raspy as before, “you will be known as Shortkit.”

A murmur broke at along the fringes of the camp, clanmates furrowing their brows and looking confused at the choice of name. After all, Sunflank and Lionwing had been planning to name their kits with strength and fire, drawing back on their lineages. It was something everyone in the clan had heard them playfully arguing over, before the kits had even been born. It was odd that Sunflank would choose such a meek name for her only surviving child.

But Dustwhisker understood. In his head, he could hear Lionwing’s voice, the pride and joy and endless love blossoming with each word as she told him about her kits.

(“ _The boys are so strong already! One of them loves to chew the herbs that Gentlemoon drops when she visits; maybe he’ll want to be a healer. And oh! You should see my daughter… she’s the smallest, but the fiercest of the whole group! My little short-stack, I’m positive she’ll be the strongest of them all one day!”)_

_(Short-stack.)_

It was a good name. It was Sunflank speaking without saying anything, words like: _It is not a name of fire and strength, but I know you will be strong either way,_ and _I know the love that once called you that,_ and _I was never meant to choose your name on my own, anyway._ It was Sunflank’s prickliness and fiery attitude and Lionwing’s fondness for nicknames and the way she’d loved with her whole heart, in a way that had always astounded Dustwhisker, and as the clearing echoed with his niece’s new name, he felt a sickening feeling slide into his gut, something hard and tightly-wound that longed to be bitter but couldn’t in the face of Sunflank closing her one eye and simply pressing her scarred head to her kit’s.

Sunflank didn’t cry. Dustwhisker didn’t cry. But he wished they would.

…

“You know,” said Dustwhisker quietly, “you won’t get much better out here.”

From where she laid over Lionwing’s grave, Sunflank didn’t respond. From the way her eyes were closed and the way her chin rested on her paws, Dustwhisker would have thought she was asleep, but her muscles were too tense and her ears were folded tight to her skull. Besides, she was sitting too still, too taunt, to be simply resting. And she may have been deaf on one side, but it was a quiet night… and he knew she was listening.

“Gentlemoon says you train all day, that you push yourself too hard, too fast. Shortkit hasn’t even started her apprenticeship yet, and already she’s distracted.” When he got no response, Dustwhisker sat. “I’m not saying to stop training—but don’t hurt yourself, either.”

“You know,” he continued softly, after a moment’s pause, “I didn’t realize you visited, at first. Your scent was here, but so faint. And it’s because you cover it up, don’t you? Like you don’t want anyone to know.”

Not a muscle twitched from her form, and Dustwhisker finally stood. “I don’t care if you only visit at night. I don’t care if you overwork yourself. But _you_ should care. If not for yourself, then for _her_ kit.”

He walked away.

…

The Duskclan warrior let out a yowl and swiped at Dustwhisker, lips peeled back into a snarl. For their level of aggression, he would have thought they were at war and not just participating in a minor border skirmish—but a part of him understood, at the same time, the heightened tension and grief throughout the clans, the way it had even the most peaceful warriors lashing out in defense. And something was soothing about it, he supposed. The fact that they could fight without fearing for their lives. The Raiders hadn’t cared about the Warrior Code, but here, Dustwhisker was secure in the fact that his opponent wouldn’t be aiming to tear his throat out on purpose, no matter how driven by rage or grief they were.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of red fur that indicted Sunflank was sparring with her own opponent, circling them carefully to keep them away from her blind side. She’d approved over the last few moons, and while it was true she’d been cleared for warrior duties again, Dustwhisker knew it was just supposed to be patrols and doubted that she was adequately ready to fight in a real battle yet. He supposed they were just lucky that they had brought an extra apprentice on patrol, so that they outnumbered the three Duskclan warriors.

Next to him, Dovestone dodged a swipe from her own opponent and directed said apprentice with a flick of the tail to try and circle around. Ruggedpaw eagerly followed suit and Dustwhisker felt a grin creep over his face; he was a good apprentice, and would surely be a good warrior, too.

Then a harsh bark rent the air, and several things happened all at once. The first was that Dustwhisker realized more Duskclan warriors had arrived and they no longer had the advantage; and the second was that Sunflank froze, allowing her opponent to barrel her to ground and sink their fangs into her scarred shoulder.

A screech burst from her throat, and in the next moment, she was furiously kicking at her opponent, refusing to stop even as they cried out and attempted to retreat. “Sunflank!” he yelled, distracted, and a clawed paw smashed into his jaw as punishment for his brief lapse in attention.

“Retreat!” Dovestone yowled, covering Ruggedpaw as he scrambled away. Dustwhisker leapt back, and seeing no other choice, he grabbed Sunflank by the scruff and pulled her away. For a moment she refused to yield, straining to fight, her eyes glazed and bloodshot, and Dustwhisker felt something cold shoot down his spine at the lifelessness he saw there, at the desperation and terror and pure _bloodlust_ consuming her.

“Come on!” he grunted through a mouthful of her scruff, and even though he was able to pull her away as the Duskclan warriors yowled their victory, she still fought him. He refused to release her until they were a fair distance away, and when he did, she immediately turned on him, eyes alit in a furious rage.

“What the hell is your problem?” she hissed, tail lashing. “I had it under control!”

Something snapped in Dustwhisker. “What’s MY problem?” he howled, “MY PROBLEM? It’s YOU, you stupid, ungrateful disgrace of a warrior!”

Sunflank reeled like she’d been struck, taking an unsteady step back. Out of the corner of his eye, Dustwhisker could see Dovestone approaching, mouth already open to quell the fight as Ruggedpaw stared on wide-eyed, but he didn’t care. “You act like everything in this world is out to get you—you always have! But you’re not the only one that cared! YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE THAT MISSES LIONWING!”

“I’m not stupid!” she yelled back, “I know that!”

“Then _WHY_ ,” he roared, “ _DON’T YOU JUST GODDAMN MOVE ON ALREADY?!_ ”

There was a ringing in Dustwhisker’s ears as Sunflank stared at him, sides heaving and limbs trembling, and that look was still in her eye, that haunted and desperate look that made his insides squirm with fear.

“I can’t,” she said flatly. Slowly, like each step pained her (which maybe it did, maybe it really, really did), she brushed past him, her head drooping. “I don’t think I ever can.”

As she limped past Dovestone, the other cat tried to reach out, but Sunflank similarly brushed her off, not even sparing a glance for her or the apprentice that had witnessed the altercation. She did pause before disappearing into the thickets, however, her head tilting to the side as she spoke over her shoulder to Dustwhisker.

“Maybe I’d be better off with her, hah?”

Sunflank was long gone before Dustwhisker could think to respond, which left him only with a throbbing jaw, a dry mouth, and Dovestone and Ruggedpaw staring at him wordlessly.

…

“Dustwhisker?”

Dustwhisker startled, looking up to where a head peeked into the warrior’s den. “Shortkit?” he asked groggily, “what is it?”

When the kit didn’t respond, he stood, careful not to jostle Silversplash—luckily, she just snuffled a bit and turned over in her sleep without complaint. Shortkit shuffled back as Dustwhisker stepped out into the camp’s clearing, blinking sleep from his eyes and trying to discern the kit’s expression in the dim light of early morning.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “Why are you up so early?”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything, staring at her fidgeting paws. Then she asked, in a small voice, “What’s wrong with Mom?”

The air left Dustwhisker’s lungs. When the kit looked up at him, her eyes were glistening with tears. “I know,” she said shakily, “that she’s sad, a lot. ‘Cuz of Mama. B-but… nothin’ I do helps.” She ducked her head to her chest, sniffling helplessly. “I just w-wanna help.”

Holding back the tears that so desperately wanted to fall, Dustwhisker gently licked Shortkit over her head. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, keeping his voice calm, “you _do_ help. More than you’ll ever know. But it’s not your job, ok? Your job is to grow up big and strong.”

“I’m gonna be an apprentice,” she said, her voice slightly steadier as she smiled up at him.

He purred encouragingly. “Exactly! Only a couple days away, right?” Dustwhisker hesitated, then smiled himself. “Nothing stays the same, alright? Your Mom just… needs some more time. Just remember that she loves you, ok?”

Shortkit stared into his eyes with nothing but trust. “Ok, Dustwhisker. Sorry for waking you so early.”

“It’s perfectly fine, sweetheart. If you ever need to talk to me again, do it, alright? No hesitating.” He licked another stripe down her cheek, relieved to hear her giggle in response. “You’re my favourite niece.”

“I’m your only niece,” she pointed out cheekily, and her smile looked so much like Lionwing’s that his knees suddenly felt weak.

“Yeah,” he said wobbly, “but you’re still my favourite.”

…

It took a lot for Dustwhisker to stop himself from taking a chunk out of the cat sitting in front of him. “Are you even listening?” he hissed out.

Sunflank didn’t even glance at him. “I think you should mind your own business,” she replied coldly.

Dustwhisker felt the fur along his spine rise, the rage in his chest blossoming. “It IS my business! She’s my niece!”

“And she’s my daughter!” Sunflank bared her fangs at him, for the first time in moons radiating an intimidating presence that Dustwhisker remembered from when they were apprentices. “I don’t need you lecturing me on how to raise her! I don’t need you to tell me how to protect her!”

“You think that it’s protecting?!” Dustwhisker spat. “I talked to her mentor; half the time, she’s more focused on you than her own training!” He took a deep breath, trying to take on a more reasonable tone. “Look. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be training. You should. You’ve had to adjust a lot since your… injuries. But you can’t keep hovering over Shortpaw. She needs to think about herself, not her mother.”

“I didn’t ask her to worry about me,” Sunflank snapped, then squeezed her single eye shut, as if realizing the ridiculousness of the statement. “I mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Dustwhisker said bitterly. “Oh, believe me, I know. Sunflank doesn’t need anyone but herself, right?”

“Dustwhisker—”

“You’ve always been like this!” he exploded. “ALWAYS! Even with Lionwing! Well, newsflash—you’re not alone anymore! You haven’t been since you took my sister for your mate, since she had _your_ kits.” He pushed his face into hers, not even flinching at the shock spreading across her expression. “She’s _your_ responsibility, not the other way around, for Starclan’s sake! So, so… ACT LIKE IT!”

“Dustwhisker!” someone shouted, and he turned just in time to get a whack to the side of his head. “How dare you?” Silversplash hissed at him. “Fighting in the middle of the camp? What is wrong with you?!”

“No.” Both of them startled. “No,” Sunflank repeated quietly, “he’s right. Shortpaw is my responsibility. She deserves better than I’ve been giving her.”

“Sunflank,” Silversplash said soothingly, “you’ve been through a lot. It’s not—”

“Don’t,” she said warningly. “Just—don’t.” Her head swung to Dustwhisker, fixating on him with an unwavering but emotionless focus. “You don’t have to worry anymore,” she said flatly. “I… I won’t stop watching over Shortpaw’s training, but I’ll talk to her and make sure she doesn’t have to worry about me.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, her tail hanging low and a limp still noticeable in her steps. It didn’t escape Dustwhisker’s notice that she was heading in the direction of the burial grounds.

“Why would you do that?” Silversplash asked. Her anger had gone dull, now just tired and frustrated rather than sharp.

“She… Shortpaw is Lionwing’s daughter, too. I need to watch over her.”

“She’s grieving, Dust. You can’t blame her.”

“I know,” he snapped, then immediately apologized. “Sorry. I meant… I think she’s the only one I _can_ blame, Silver. And before you say anything, I know that’s not fair. I know. But Lionwing…”

Silversplash’s eyes softened and she leaned into her mate. “She did love her, you know. They loved each other so, so much. Don’t you remember their bonding ceremony?”

Dustwhisker did. He remembered the sweet spring breeze, still chilled with the last wisps of winter, and the budding trees, the fresh flower petals woven through their pelts. He remembered the way his sister had laughed and cried, and the way Sunflank—so much younger and less scarred—had been like a ray of sunlight, her face more open and carefree and full of love than Dustwhisker had ever seen. Throughout it all, she’d barely torn her eyes away from Lionwing, deaf to the clan’s congratulations and seemingly blind to anything but Lionwing’s smile—like she’d been lost in her own little world, where all she cared about was her mate. Dustwhisker remembered that, just like he vividly remembered Sunflank pacing outside the nursey during Lionwing’s labour, and the way Lionwing had wept at her bedside when she’d been mutilated, and all his sister’s gentle words as she told her brother all her deepest dreams and fears—secret confessions they had shared back and forth their whole life. They’d always shared everything with each other.

And so, Dustwhisker knew how much she had loved Sunflank.

“I…” he swallowed roughly. “I know—I know that Lionwing wouldn’t want me to blame her.” He exhaled slowly, not voicing everything else he wanted to say, words like: _I never used to be this angry, I know_ , and _I blame her anyway_ , and _It isn’t fair but neither was Lionwing dying and leaving her kit to be simultaneously neglected and smothered, so if nobody else will say it, I will, because… because Sunflank never deserved her, anyway_.

(… _Right?_ )

Silversplash sighed and tucked herself beneath his chin, and they said no more.

…

It got better, at least. Sunflank stopped hovering over Shortpaw’s training, giving her the breathing room she needed to focus on her own life. The lifeless way in which Sunflank moved and talked melted whenever Shortpaw came to her, and Dustwhisker could see the way the apprentice brightened at seeing her mother acting more like herself. But that’s all it was, he knew—an act. 

He thought it would make him feel better, at the least, to see Sunflank finally putting effort into her life, to see how much thought she put into parenting—still too overprotective, but at least aware of it and respecting Shortpaw’s boundaries. She pushed herself just hard enough that mid-way through Shortpaw’s apprenticeship, Gentlemoon finally deemed her fully healed and fit to return to the warrior’s den permanently, and that should have been a satisfying victory as well. 

But at night, he heard her limbs thrash and kick restlessly, like she was fighting an invisible enemy. More often than not, she’d jerk awake with a strangled cry, and disappear out into the dark, only returning as the other warriors stirred.

Several times, he saw Silversplash or Dovestone try to talk to her about it, but they were always brushed off. Once, he’d witnessed Gentlemoon sitting with her near the healer’s den, conversing too quietly for him to work out, but he’d seen the sad expression on the healer’s face as she’d discreetly nudged a bundle of poppy seeds to the expressionless feline. He always knew when she’d taken them, because those were the nights she slept as still and lifeless as a corpse.

He should have been satisfied. Instead, all he felt was a squirming sense of discomfort and guilt.

( _Why hadn’t he seen it before? The way she moved like a ghost, a parody of life? How had he missed the glazed look in her eyes whenever a dog barked in the distance? The way she walked over the thawing river ice without any care for falling through, or how she crossed human roads without looking both ways first, or the eagerness in which she leapt into border skirmishes without a second thought? The way she flinched at sudden movements and still limped after a long day of patrolling, straightening her stance and smoothing away the pain from her expression whenever someone looked at her, but letting it drop when she sprawled silently over her mate’s grave? How had he never noticed that her lack of tears, of visible grief, was just because she showed no emotion at all?)_

Her scent still lingered over Lionwing’s grave.

…

“I thought I’d find you here.” Settling back on his haunches, Dustwhisker tried to keep his tone light. Since their fight, moons ago, they’d had only a handful of conversations—civil discussions about patrol times, polite nods at the food-pile—but nothing to suggest the messy tangle of personal issues that lurked beneath the surface.

Sunflank was quiet for a long moment. Unlike the last time he’d come here, she wasn’t curled over Lionwing’s grave; instead, she was sitting upright, her single eye tracing the bobbing dandelions that bloomed around the stone marking the site. Finally, she asked, “Did Silversplash send you?”

Dustwhisker hesitated. “No,” he confessed, “just me, I’m afraid.”

“Did you know?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she sighed near silently. “I’m not angry; only curious.”

“Sure,” he said carefully. He didn’t want to point out that with her it was always difficult to tell how she’d react. “But yeah, I did. Shortp—Shortsun asked me beforehand if it was a good name, if I thought you’d approve.”

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth: it wasn’t up to me, or you, or anyone, really. You may get your first name from your parents, but your warrior name is solely for you to decide on. If she didn’t want to carry on your name, she wouldn’t have.”

“Do you think…” she asked, and finally, Dustwhisker heard her voice break, “do you think I deserve it?”

He watched the tears silently trail down her scarred face. “No,” he said, “I don’t think you do.”

…

(Once, he dreamed of clouds that were more fog than sky. He dreamed of a familiar voice in the wind, whispering his name. He dreamed and ached for what he’d lost, but was able to smile into the mist, because time had healed the rawness of those wounds.

He missed her. But now it was just a secondary ache, a phantom pain, an old scar that only tugged at him after a long day. He had his mate and his kits and his friends and his clan to serve, and he knew she would have wanted him like this. She would have wanted them to move on.

Maybe that was why he felt so bitter towards the one clinging to old wounds.)

…

“You know,” Dovestone said conversationally, “you’ve always been hard on her.”

Dustwhisker tensed, but he knew Sunflank wouldn’t hear them—she was too far ahead, completely focused on her hunt, and the rushing of the river nearby would drown out any stray words she might overhear. He shot a glare at Dovestone anyway, uncaring when she frowned in return.

“Yeah, well… she’s always been difficult.”

“And you never used to be so short-tempered,” Dovestone pointed out. “I get it, you know. We’ve all changed as we’ve gotten older. We all changed after the River Raids.”

“Yeah?” he said shortly, “and how did you change?”

“I was too scared to think about having kits,” she said matter-of-factly. “For moons after, any noise in the camp had me awake and paranoid. I know I make more jokes now, when I talk to Silver, ‘cuz it’s only the two of us now and someone has to fill in the space where Lionwing used to chime in. I know I’m a bit of a hard-ass with my apprentices, ‘cuz I never want them to be underprepared.” She tilted her head at him, giving him a lopsided smile. “I’ve never been the first to charge into battle, but it doesn’t mean I’m blind, Dust.”

“I never said you were,” he replied. He cast her a guilty look. “I’m sorry if I ever implied that you… I don’t know? Weren’t effected by it all? I know the River Raids changed things within the clans. I guess I just never thought they’d be permanent changes, you know?”

“That’s why we focus on our children,” said Dovestone. “It’s up to us to make sure the future is better for younger generations. That they won’t grow up like we did.”

“We grew up fine. It was what came _after_ that was bad.”

“Well, we can at the least make sure we don’t pass down those bad things, then. Yeah?”

“You know that’s why I was always angry with her, right?” Dustwhisker said. Dovestone inclined her head, prompting him to continue. “Because of Shortsun. It didn’t matter that we were all messed up—she was just a kit. A kit that had survived something horrifying, and who had lost one of her parents before she’d even been named, and Sunflank just didn’t see it. She either vanished without a trace or was breathing down her neck, refusing to let her out of her sight. It wasn’t healthy.”

Dovestone huffed, her eyes tracing Sunflank’s hunting crouch in the distance. “I don’t think its up to us to pass judgement on her. Although, I can’t necessarily argue with you about Shortsun; she definitely needed someone to point out how hard it was for her kit.” She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye. “Your approach was… a little harsh, though.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Dustwhisker didn’t even see it coming when Dovestone swatted his shoulder, and he let out a low hiss at the fact she hadn’t bothered to retract her claws. “Don’t be an asshole, Dust! Sunflank has always been aware of her actions. Did you know that all those times she disappeared, she always left Shortkit with Gentlemoon? She might have been a bit smothering during her apprenticeship, but can you blame her? After what happened? After she _almost died_ , and still couldn’t save her other kits? You can’t see that maybe she wanted to cling to the last bit of family she thought she had? That maybe watching her kit grow up and head out into the world was, I don’t know, _bloody terrifying_?”

Dustwhisker scowled and peevishly swatted a rock over the cliff into the river below. “Alright, alright, point proven!” He sobered, watching his feet. “I just…”

Dovestone heaved a sigh. “For the moon before Hazelwing became a warrior, he stayed in the warrior’s den with you and Silversplash, and nobody berated you for that.”

“That was different,” he said stubbornly. “Really, Dovestone, why are we talking about this? It’s been seasons since the River Raids. Our kits are grown.”

“Because the reason you’re still angry is that she hasn’t stopped grieving.”

“Well, she shouldn’t!” he burst out. “Like I said, it’s been years, now! It’s not my problem if she refuses to move on, but it is when she won’t let the rest of us forget it!”

Dovestone just shook her head at him. “And what good does it do ‘the rest of us’ to be angry about it?”

Whatever he was going to say in response was cut off by the crunch of rocks ahead of them, and they both looked up to see Sunflank making her way towards them while carrying a large dead rabbit between her teeth. Later, he’d know that both he and Dovestone had realized at the same time what was about to happen—her blind side to the cliff-edge, the unsteadiness of her gait while carrying the prey, the looseness of gravel as she stepped just a bit too close to the crumbling edge. With a startled yowl, she slipped just as Dovestone shouted a warning, and without hesitation, Dustwhisker lunged forward to try and grab her.

He missed.

Within seconds, she’d disappeared into the currents below. It wasn’t a particularly violent or deep river, but the winter runoff had no doubt plummeted the temperatures, and Dustwhisker knew how stiff Sunflank got during the colder months, the way her old wounds acted up and locked her muscles into frozen knots. He didn’t even think before he dived in after her, ignoring whatever Dovestone was screaming.

The water was like an electric shock—so bitterly cold that for a second he couldn’t breathe. And then he pushed through it and stubbornly paddled forward, ducking his head to try and make out where she’d disappeared. Her head broke the surface in a spray of water, thrashing just once before falling away again, and it was all he needed to kick closer and latch onto her scruff. He had a much thicker pelt than Sunflank, and he could feel his limbs tiring already, struggling to keep them both afloat while the cold seeped into his bones as eagerly as a forest fire burned during a drought.

“Let me go!” she coughed out. “You can’t—” The rest was cut off by her choking. Beneath him, he could feel the energy leaving her, the way her limbs were weakening as she tried to help him fight the water’s embrace. And then, he felt her go limp, feebly giving herself over to the fury of the river and forcing him to kick harder to keep them both afloat.

“J-just let go,” she mumbled, “I’m—I’m not worth it.”

A fiery feeling exploded in his gut. He clenched down on her scruff harder, his teeth digging into her flesh as he tugged her unresisting body upright, furiously kicking even harder than before. He refused to let her die because of her own stupidity. He _refused_.

“Here! Here! Swim to the side of the current!” someone yowled. He blinked to the side, and saw Dovestone racing along the bank parallel to them. He could see where she was pointing, where the cliffs dipped and fell into flatter ground, and how it would be his chance to drag them to shore—and with all his remaining strength, he did just that.

By the time his paws scraped the bottom of the riverbed and Dovestone was wading into the water to help to haul them both to higher ground, he was trembling so hard that he almost collapsed back into the water. As soon as he was on solid ground, he let his legs give way. Wheezing weakly, Sunflank let her head drop to the stones next to him, her thin fur plastered to her sides as she shook with leftover chill and exhaustion.

“You… absolute… idiot,” Dustwhisker snarled as he heaved air into his sore lungs. “Don’t you know to, to… watch your freakin’ paws?”

“L-like you’re o-one to t-talk,” she wheezed back. “D-diving in… after me… what in Starclan’s name were you _t-thinking_?” 

“Like I wasn’t about to let my sister’s mate die just because she can’t give a crap about her own life,” he snapped.

Dovestone was squawking something in the background—probably about how now wasn’t the time to fight or how they needed to get to the healer—but all Dustwhisker could focus on was Sunflank’s startled blink as she stared at him, like her own passive regard for her own life had been unsubtle in some way.

And then she laughed. She laughed, and it was wet and overlaid with coughs, more air than noise, and Dustwhisker couldn’t tell if it was more hysterical or amused as she ducked her head to her chest. When she looked him in the eye again, there was more emotion there than he’d seen since Lionwing had died. 

“Alright,” she said softly, slow blinking at him, “…alright.”

It was shaky, but it held conviction, and he suddenly knew that she would no longer walk through life so recklessly. Maybe it was long overdue, but the reality of everything was finally starting to settle. She was finally taking a step forward, no matter how small it was. 

Dustwhisker nodded stiffly. His limbs burned with overexertion and his jaw would ache for days to come, but Sunflank was alive, and he figured that had to count for something.

…

_“Dustpaw! Dustpaw!”_

_He let out a loud “oof!” as his sister ran directly into his side. “Lionpaw, really?”_

_She huffed out a sigh, then sprawled over his back. “Yes, really!” she said, “I need to VENT.”_

_Dustpaw rolled his eyes. “Is it about Sunpaw again?”_

_“Urgh, maybe?”_

_He laughed, flopping down so Lionpaw was forced to move unless she wanted to get squished. “So, what did she do this time?”_

_"Nothing, just, you know, did her usual thing.”_

_“You mean when she slinks away without a word,” he said drily._

_Lionpaw batted his ear, scowling playfully. “Well, yeah! But she actually said bye to me this time!” Her eyes went dreamy, her tail twitching lazily as she rolled onto her back. “Gosh, she’s so pretty, isn’t she?”_

_“Sure, if you don’t mind rude, grouchy—ow, ow, alright, I get it!” He wrestled with her for a few more seconds before they settled side by side, giggling. “Gosh, you’re so hopeless.”_

_"Oh, like you’re one to talk—pining over Silverpaw constantly.”_

_Dustpaw sputtered. “I—I don’t pine!” He could feel his face flushing and tried to play it off by pushing a paw into his sister’s grinning face, rolling his eyes. “Oh, shut up!”_

_"Don’t worry, little brother, I won’t tell her,” she teased._

_“You’re only older by two minutes!” he said in exasperation. It was a well-worn argument, one that had persisted since their poor mother had made the mistake of sharing that detail with the pair of them when they were kits. “Besides, Silverpaw is…” He let out a dreamy sigh of his own, ducking his head so he wouldn’t have to deal with Lionpaw’s amused expression._

_They shared a comfortable silence after that, both of them soaking in the summer sun without complaint. Eventually, Dustpaw sat up and started to groom the fur that had been ruffled by Lionpaw’s ambush, glancing down at her fondly as she stretched out._

_"Just you wait,” she said sleepily, “one day, I’ll have a mate and kits, and you’ll have to love them just as much as I do ‘cuz you’re my brother.”_

_“If Sunpaw is your mate, I highly doubt that,” he joked._

_"Oh, shush,” she replied, smiling with her eyes shut as she tilted her chin into the sunlight. “You can spend your golden years bickering with her as much as you like, once we’ve all grown old together, but until then, you’ll just have to put up with me and her, won’t you?”_

…

(They hadn’t gotten the chance to grow old together, in the end.)

…

The earth was damp. Overhead, thunder grumbled and the wind lashed through the trees, lightning occasionally lighting up the shadowed corners of the forest as Dustwhisker shivered. It was the type of night that had the rest of his clanmates huddling in their nests, glad to be out of the rain and chill, and a part of him longed to join them, to groom the mud from his pelt and breathe in the heady scent of moss and dried grass.

Beneath his paws, the freshly-turned earth was damp, and he couldn’t move.

“You’ll get sick if you stay out here,” said a voice over his shoulder, and he flinched violently. He hadn’t heard them approach, but he recognized the single, green eye watching him from the gloom.

“Yeah,” he agreed dully. He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

This time he heard Sunflank approach, the wet earth grasping at each of her careful steps with quiet sucking sounds. The stone they’d placed several hours beforehand had already sunk several inches into the soaked ground. Around its edges, the remnants of drowned lavender and snowdrop petals pooled in sad, wilted puddles. He couldn’t smell them, he realized—the scent of mud was too strong.

“I’m sorry,” Sunflank said softly.

“Aren’t you going to tell me to head back to camp?” Several of their clanmates had already tried that, and had given up as the storm worsened and he still refused to move.

She was silent for a long time. Rainwater trickled over his forehead, dripping down his face like tears, but he couldn’t cry. “That won’t help,” Sunflank finally said, and he raised his head just enough that he could see her mirrored position, the way she’d bowed her head alongside his. She was so close they were almost touching. Almost.

“I can’t cry,” he rasped out. “I thought… but I can’t. I just can’t.”

“…It’s like being hollowed out,” Sunflank said. “Like nothing could encompass it, ever.”

Dustwhisker swallowed roughly. “Does… does it get better?”

This time, it took much longer for Sunflank to respond—so long that Dustwhisker almost thought he’d hallucinated her in the first place, that his imagination had conjured some twisted form of comfort for him to latch onto. Then, she leaned closer, voice just loud enough to be heard over the wind, and he knew that if this was his imagination, that it was that of a guilty conscious.

“…I would have been content to never be more than I was. But she made me want to be more. I don’t think there’s anything that can heal that.” She paused, her head hanging heavily as he leaned into the gap between them. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

The cold touch of Sunflank’s wet fur sent a shiver down his spine as he pressed his nose to her scarred neck. “I don’t think she ever loved me as much as I loved her. I suggested a bonding ceremony, once, and I thought it was just because she’d been a kittypet—that she didn’t understand clan traditions—and that was why she said we didn’t need to.” His heart felt like lead as Sunflank carefully pressed her face into his ruff. “But that wasn’t it, was it?”

“I—” Sunflank’s voice faltered. “She loved you. She had your kits.”

“Yes. I was her mate. But she… _she was my whole world_.” 

The storm continued around them, but Dustwhisker didn’t care. All he could think about was the wet earth, the press of Sunflank’s damp fur, the way her breathing wove around the howling of wind and the crackling of lightning, and for the first time, he understood. He finally understood her masks, the sharpness of her tongue, the way she believed everything good had been scraped away and left hollow. He understood, now.

(It wasn’t clinging to old wounds; it was scars that refused to close in the first place. It was bleeding out with no end in sight. It was being utterly alone even when surrounded by those that cared. It was loving so wholeheartedly that taking it away left nothing behind. It was so painful, he couldn’t even feel it _._ ) 

They sat like that for a long time. Pressed against each other, shaking down to their bones with grief and cold, and it was only when his trembling turned to spasms that Sunflank nudged his shoulder. “Come on,” she said roughly, “we can’t stay here all night.” She heaved out a low exhale. “Silversplash wouldn’t have wanted that.”

His joints and muscles protested the movement, but he did as Sunflank said. He unfolded himself, pulled away from the bubble they’d formed over his mate’s grave, and for an instant he just stared into Sunflank’s face.

It wasn’t a pretty face. It was hard and raw, overlaid with uneven patches of fur and scar tissue, and the mess of her mutilated eye was nearly painful to look at. She’d been hard to read even before the Raiders, but now he doubted anyone had the courage to look her square in the face, to look beyond the old wounds and masks to decipher deeper meaning. Maybe if they did, they’d see what he saw now, things she wouldn’t say aloud, but that contained unspoken words like: _I don’t know how to care for others but will offer what comfort I can in my own secret way_ , and _I have been in your place, have been too grieved to cry, too angry to scream, too empty to want to continue living, but I did it and so can you_ , and _I understand_.

( _I understand_.)

“I know, now,” he murmured to her. “I know why my sister loved you. And for what it’s worth, Sunflank—I’m sorry.”

Her breath hitched in her chest, but she didn’t respond, wordlessly helping him as they limped back to camp. As they pushed through the entrance, she said quietly, “I was never angry at you. I was just angry at everything.”

“I should have helped more.”

“You can’t help what doesn’t want to be helped,” she said sadly, bitterly, tiredly.

“Yeah,” he agreed, exhaustion settling heavily over him. “Yeah.”

They entered the warrior’s den, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw several clanmates look up, their eyes shining with worry. Sunflank’s tail wrapped around his side, and without a word, she nudged him away from their burning gazes.

A pang went through him at the sight of his nest—the one sprinkled with lavender because Silversplash always said she liked the smell—which was arranged in a large semicircle that had been the perfect size for the two of them to curl up together. He couldn’t imagine how big it would feel now, without someone there next to him.

“No,” said Sunflank. He startled, but didn’t fight it as she pushed him away from the nest and into her own. He remembered, only then, that one of the first things she’d done when returning to the warrior’s den was to take out all her old bedding and carefully construct a newer, smaller nest. At the time, he’d thought it was a bit insensitive, like she’d been trying to erase another piece of Lionwing’s presence—but he recognized, now, that it had simply been too painful of a reminder. He had a feeling he’d have more epiphanies like that as time went on, and he wondered if she’d help him with his own painful reminders. 

The nest was warm, at least. Mossy and soft in a way he wouldn’t have expected from Sunflank. Comforting.

He also wasn’t expecting Sunflank to let out a grunt and flop down next to him. The nest was hardly big enough for the both of them, but Sunflank insistently pushed into his space, her paws draping themselves over his shoulders in a way that reminded him of how his sister would lay on top of him when they were younger. After a short pause, her tongue rasped against his side, unsteady and obviously not used to grooming someone else, but determined. He blinked up at her, catching the awkward clench of her jaw as she stubbornly groomed his fur back into place, and felt something fond settle in his chest as he reached over and returned the favor.

It wasn’t ok. But in that moment, Dustwhisker didn’t feel alone—and he hoped she didn’t, either.

**Author's Note:**

> in terms of timeline, Dustwhisker passes away several months after the end of this fic, being one of the first to catch the black sleep plague that also kills Shortsun. if he'd lived a little longer, him and Sunflank could have become close friends. 
> 
> (for additional angst, it is worth noting that Embermoon, the apprentice healer from the first part of this series, is one of Dustwhisker's and Silversplash's children, technically making her Sunflank's niece.) 
> 
> if you have any questions or comments, you can hmu [@blackfirewolf](https://blackfirewolf.tumblr.com/)


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